Pieces of a Story
by Swing Girl At Heart
Summary: Past-life fic, taking place in 1776 during the beginning of the American Revolution.  "The universe only uses the same cast of characters over and over again."
1. Prologue

**A/N: ENDLESS thanks to the genius known as SrslyNo, who not only came up with the concept for this, but also was gracious enough to allow me to adapt it for the Gleeful masses. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

**

_**Lima, Ohio – Present Day**_

The dark stormy clouds hovering over Lima, Ohio and threatening to downpour were the perfect reflection of Sue Sylvester's mood as she rode home in the back of her camouflage Humvee. Jose, her driver, kept his eyes straight ahead, knowing better than to even glance at his employer in the rearview mirror lest he provoke a tirade of how illegal immigrants – and _especially_ Mexicans – were terrible drivers and they should all be shipped to the oil fields of Saudi Arabia where they could be put to some real use.

Sue was scribbling in her journal as the Humvee rumbled along, passing through red lights (she refused to stop for anything between the school and home) and threatening to obliterate anything in its path. She was putting the finishing touches on a detailed sketch of one Will Schuester being eaten by a lion when Jose finally pulled through the gate to the Sylvester estate.

"Imelda! Shake! Now!" she ordered loudly the moment the front door closed behind her. Imelda appeared with a fresh Appleteen shake, deftly exchanged it for Sue's bullhorn and scurried back into the kitchen. Sue stretched as she strode towards her living room, only to stop short, eyebrows raised and mouth in a grim line when she saw none other than Bryan Ryan peering closely at her 1989 Nationals trophy.

"Hello, Sue," he said.

"Well, I can't say that you're welcome," she snapped. "Get out before I unleash the hounds. Did Imelda let you in?"

"No, she didn't. Your trophies are beautiful – is that real gold?"

It was only then that it really registered in Sue's brain just what Bryan was wearing. A white top that was more blouse than shirt and skin-tight brown trousers, tucked into knee-high white stockings and completed with buckled shoes that were creased and dusty with use. His hair was cropped and pulled back into a small ponytail at the base of his neck, and Sue suddenly felt the urge to snip it off like that freakish sophomore shemale she'd mutilated months ago. "Did the Renaissance Fair close early?" she spat.

He smirked. "Wrong era." Picking delicately at his loose sleeve, he gave a shrug and said, "It's not too fancy, but it's a hell of a lot more comfortable than what gentlemen of a higher rank would wear." She frowned. His accent was odd – unquestionably American, but with a slight British lilt that was difficult to pick up.

"You have negative three seconds to get to the point and tell me why you're here dressed like a sneaky gay in a disturbingly plot-oriented porn movie before I call the police."

Either Bryan was unfazed by her insults or they'd simply gone over his head, because he only said, "Why don't you have a seat?"

"No."

He arched an eyebrow. "Very well." He braced his hands against the back of the sofa. "I'm here to discuss you. More specifically, your soul."

"You've just given me a very good reason to not only round-kick you through the window, but also to disband the Glee club once and for all. If they corrupted you this easily, there's something far more sinister in that group than I originally thought and Will Schuester must be dealt with immediately."

Bryan chuckled. "What I've come to discuss has absolutely nothing to do with Glee club, Sue. Though it does involve the man you know as Will Schuester."

Now, though she'd never admit it, Sue's interest was peaked. She crossed her arms. "What about Will Schuester?"

"Well, on a karmic scale, the two of you come hand-in-hand."

"That's offensive."

Another chuckle. "I didn't mean to imply anything romantic. I'm simply stating that every time the two of you are reincarnated, you factor very much into each other's lives. Sometimes as siblings, sometimes as friends, sometimes as colleagues… I could go on."

"_Reincarnated_?" Sue demanded.

"Bear with me. The fact of the matter is that your souls will be tied to one another until the two of you can finally resolve your differences. Think of it as the universe making you two – what's that phrase you 21st century people use? – 'hug it out'."

"Okay, I can see perfectly well why the universe would be interested in _me_, but the giant hole in your story is that Will Schuester is a worm in the ground, and any cosmic power would stomp on him if they knew what was good for him. And the even _more_ giant hole in your story is that _reincarnation is a lie_. A fantasy!"

"Oh, come now, Sue, I know you're an atheist. I'm not talking about God. And if there indeed is a higher power, then wonderful, and I wish Him the best of luck. But that question is far bigger than your dilemma."

By this point, Sue had forgotten about setting the hounds loose. "My dilemma?"

"You and Will Schuester have gone further astray in this life than you have in any past life since your souls were born. You're each in your _fifty-second_ incarnation, and you've only got regress to show for it. Do you have _any_ idea just how long fifty-two lifetimes is? You two have been at each other's throats off and on since the time of the Romans."

"Who are you?" Sue snapped.

He straightened up. "Benjamin Rille, at your service. Bryan Ryan is my fifteenth incarnation. I am the ninth. I was born on October fourth, seventeen-fifty-three. But as I've said, I'm here to discuss _you_, not me. I'm only a pawn."

"A _pawn_? In what?"

"The universe uses the same cast of characters over and over again, only with slight differences from life to life. The people you're surrounded by in this life? You've been surrounded by them since their first incarnations, and believe it or not, none of them – myself included – can actually go their separate ways until you can make things civil between yourself and Schuester."

"You're expecting me to believe that we're all stuck with each other until I hug it out with the lesbian?"

"It sounds quite silly when you put it that way, but…yes."


	2. A Letter From A Stranger

_**Characters In Part One:**_

_Sue Sylvester = Susan Simpson (age 17)_

_Will Schuester = Walter Simpson_

_Carl Howell = Charles Hatten_

_Mercedes Jones = Madeline_

_Matt Rutherford = Mathias_

* * *

_**New York – May, 1776**_

The heavy fragrances of tar pitch, sweat, and sawdust choked the dusty air as it gently wafted over the shipyards on the Hudson River. The lack of wind and clouds made the yard seem as hot as the Sahara, despite the fact that it was only late spring. Massive boat hulls in various states of construction lined the waterfront, casting shadows over the patches of trash floating on the surface of the river. Men shouted to each other on various levels between the ground and ship masts as they labored under the sun, and amidst them all, walking briskly with a light shawl wrapped around her wide shoulders as if she took no notice of the heat, was a large black woman garbed in a plain dress sewn of rough cotton. Her head was wrapped in a white cloth and hiding her hair, and she squinted through the sunlight, peering at the faces of the men and boys rushing to and fro.

"Beg pardon, sir!" she called, approaching one of the shipbuilders as he sanded a plank in the shade provided by a nearly complete boat hull.

He looked up from his task, wiping sweat from his forehead and tugging at his loose hair.

"Have you seen Miss Simpson around, sir?"

He smirked. "Gone missing again, has she? You might try the_ Constance_ – she's the schooner at the end of the pier."

"Thank you very much, sir, much obliged to you." Madeline gave a quick bow of the head before continuing on her way.

The_ Constance_ sat at the very end of the pier where the man had promised, awaiting only a coat of paint before she was ready to be set into the water. With three towering masts and at least twenty men currently fixing her riggings, she was a grand sight, especially when looking up from the ground, but would be even grander once her hull was painted and she was skimming the waves under full sail. Madeline knew next to nothing about ships and shipbuilding, but it didn't take a sailor to see that the _Constance_ was a fine specimen and would be difficult to match for speed.

Shielding her eyes against the sunlight, Madeline scanned the bodies working on _Constance_'s riggings and other final touches until she spotted a boyish figure about to climb the net towards where the sails were currently being tied onto the mast. "Miss Simpson!" Madeline hollered, cupping her hands round her mouth. "Miss Simpson!"

The figure's head whipped round, hat nearly flying off with the movement, and Madeline chuckled as the shoulders slumped and the figure nimbly jumped off the riggings, swinging down the ladder to the ground.

"Your father wants to see you, Miss Susan," Madeline said as the girl approached.

Susan groaned, rolling her eyes. She wore boys' clothes – a loose white shirt, tight brown trousers, buckled shoes, and wisps of blonde hair stuck out from beneath a worn brown tricorn hat. A straight, short-ish braid hung to her shoulders and her eyes were hardened grey and deep-set. At seventeen, she was reasonably developed in the chest, but she'd just as soon call them a curse as a blessing. "But I was just about to help Mathias," she complained, gesturing towards where a mulatto man was curled around the boom, fastening the stowed mainsail.

Madeline glanced up at him and spoke sternly. After raising the girl from cradle to corsets, she'd earned the right to tell her what she didn't want to hear. "Honey, you know better than to be swingin' from masts hundreds of feet in the air with the men. I don't have to remind you how your papa feels about you doin' a man's work and runnin' around in boys' clothes."

"What Pa doesn't know won't kill him," Susan snapped, crossing her arms. "Why does he want to see me?"

"He didn't tell me," Madeline answered, though her charge knew perfectly well that her master never told her anything about his business. It was her job to do as she was told and nothing more. "Now come on, honey, you gotta get dressed in some proper clothes."

Susan let out a half-growl and trudged alongside Madeline as they walked back along the pier. "_Why _do I have to wear a dress?" she whined.

"I don't know, honey," Madeline answered coolly. "But I'm bettin' you'll find out before I do."

"Ugh, not another potential suitor."

"That attitude, Miss Susan, is exactly why your papa feels the need to force the young men of this town on you. Mark my words, honey, your husband – when he _does_ come along – will have to be bribed to ask for your hand."

Susan rolled her eyes and huffed. "When and if he comes along, I'll castrate him the moment he walks in the room, and _that_ is the only reason he'll go down on his knees."

"Miss Susan!" Madeline scolded. "Bite your tongue!"

Susan only smirked and kicked at a rock on the ground. As she dribbled the stone between her feet, Madeline ducked her head to hide a smile.

* * *

Walter Simpson was a man of prestige – he owned the largest shipyard in the colony and earned enough money so that he had no worries when it came to paying his taxes to the Crown. First and foremost, he was a businessman. He dealt with Americans and British alike, and he'd built ships for the Continental Navy as well as the British Armada, though the majority of his boats were constructed for merchants and commercial transport. Most of his heritage came from Scotland and Wales, but his heavy brow, strong jutting chin and sharp angles spoke of Nordic blood somewhere along the line. Rather than wear a powdered wig like many of his colleagues, Mr. Simpson kept his sandy waves visible and tied with a simple black ribbon at the base of his neck, a style that would have made him appear younger if he wasn't forced by his far-sightedness to wear gold-rimmed spectacles.

He was currently sitting at his desk in the room where he conducted all his business affairs – a large study with sky-blue walls, hardwood floor, and two wide bay windows overlooking his shipyard and the river beyond it. On the corner of the desk sat a large bottle inside which there was a miniature but extremely detailed replica of a heavy three-masted frigate, and if one looked closely enough at the stern of the model, they could make out a delicately penciled name: _Lady Anne_.

"Are bottled ships a hobby of yours, Mr. Simpson?" inquired the dark-haired gentleman sitting across the desk from him.

Mr. Simpson glanced at it. "Yes, they are," he said simply, turning back to the letter he held in his hands and making it clear that there would be no further talk of ships in bottles.

The gentleman tugged at his cuff and rested his hand on his cane – more of an indication of status rather than a necessary walking aide – as he waited for Mr. Simpson to finish reading.

Several minutes later, Mr. Simpson placed the parchment on the desk, removing his spectacles and setting them beside it. "Tell me, Mr. Hatten, why is it that you're delivering this letter in person?"

The gentleman lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug. "I had business in New York. No reason to give the post rider an extra journey."

Mr. Simpson raised an eyebrow. "Are you hoping for money?"

"No, of course not," Mr. Hatten laughed.

"New York is a long ways from South Carolina."

"Yes, but, as I said, I have business here."

"Of what sort?"

"Cotton, Mr. Simpson. I'm a South Carolina man born and bred, and cotton is where the money is." He smiled. "Especially where New York is concerned."

Mr. Simpson nodded in agreement, but didn't return the smile. Standing up, he asked, "Would you like a drink?"

"Please."

Mr. Simpson called for Madeline, and in a few moments she bustled into the room, awaiting her instructions. "Some brandy for myself and Mr. Hatten, please," Mr. Simpson requested. "And Madeline?"

"Yes, sir?" She stopped just as she was turning to go.

"Did you find Susan?"

"Yes, sir, she's upstairs."

"Thank you," Mr. Simpson dismissed her and stood, striding over to the window and gazing out over the shipyard, deep in thought.

"I don't know why you speak to her like that."

Mr. Simpson turned around, a frown etched into his face. Mr. Hatten had draped one leg over the other. "I beg your pardon?"

"Your slave. It's not like you need to be polite to her."

"You're a long way from South Carolina, Mr. Hatten," Mr. Simpson repeated.


	3. Genesis

**A/N: It is a LOT harder than I originally thought it would be to keep Sue in character as not only a teenager, but an _18th-century_ teenager. Oh well. The harder it is, the more fun I get out of it :D Yay! Read on.

* * *

**

_**Characters in Part Two:**_

_Sue Sylvester = Susan Simpson_

_Will Schuester = Walter Simpson_

_Carl Howell = Charles Hatten_

_Mercedes Jones = Madeline Jenny

* * *

_

When Susan had finally worked her way into one of her horrid dresses – a terrible robin's-egg blue that her father loved for some unfathomable reason – she descended the stairs towards her father's study, hitching up her skirt and sliding down the railing with the ease of practice. Madeline was just exiting with a tray and a bottle of brandy, and she gasped when Susan's feet hit the floor.

"Good Lord, Miss Susan, you are gonna give me a heart attack one of these days!" she exclaimed. "What have I told you about ridin' the banister?"

Susan flapped a hand. "Psh. Think of it this way: I'm making the job of dusting easier."

Madeline rolled her eyes. "But you're makin' the laundry harder."

Susan eyed the bottle of brandy Madeline was carrying. "Papa's got company?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Stop grinning at me like that – I know you like it when I have to go through these things."

"I don't rightly know what you're talkin' 'bout." Madeline kept up her innocent gaze. "You can go in," she said. "But knock first. And try _not_ to walk like a boy."

Susan gave a mock curtsy. "I wouldn't _dream_ of doing such a thing!" she shrilled, flapping a hand against her forehead. "'Twould be _terribly_ improper, Miss Madeline!"

"Honey, don't you fool with me," Madeline sent a warning look in Susan's direction. "Go on in now."

Susan stuck her tongue out at the maid's retreating back, turning and rapping on the door to her father's study.

"Come in," he called from inside.

She opened the door, edging into the room. "You wanted to see me, Pa?"

He quirked an eyebrow.

"Father," she corrected.

"Yes, I did," he said, setting his brandy glass on the desk. "Susan, this is Mr. Charles Hatten. He's a cotton merchant from Charles Town. Mr. Hatten, my daughter Susan."

Mr. Hatten rose to his feet, giving a short bow. He was dark-haired and wearing a navy blue coat with lace edging on the sleeves. A silver-headed cane was leaned against his chair. Susan disliked him instantly. "Wonderful to meet you, Miss Simpson."

"Likewise," she responded flatly, narrowing her eyes at him.

He studied her face, a smile stretching across his mouth. "Well," he said, turning to her father. "She has her mother's looks, doesn't she?"

Susan's eyes widened and she looked to her father in confusion, but he only answered with, "Yes, she's always taken after the Roth side of the family."

Mr. Hatten looked at her for another few seconds, making her shift in discomfort, and finally drank the last sip of his brandy. "Well, Mr. Simpson, I think our business is done for the day. Shall we set another meeting time?"

"I'll send the coach for you."

"Excellent. It's been a pleasure." Mr. Hatten shook Walter's hand and then turned and lightly grasped Susan's, kissing her fingers. "Goodbye, Miss Simpson."

"Goodbye," she said. _And good riddance._

With a final smile, Mr. Hatten planted his hat on his head and strode out the door.

Susan's lip curled and she wiped the back of her hand on her skirt. "Who was he, Pa?"

Walter sat in his desk chair, and Susan took the seat formerly occupied by Mr. Hatten. "He was delivering a letter to me from the constable in Middleton, South Carolina."

"Middleton?"

"It's a small town outside of Dorchester."

"But…why?"

Walter sighed, taking off his spectacles and glancing at an envelope on the desktop. "Susan, your mother's passed."

"My _mother_?" Susan gaped. "But…you said she was _dead!_"

"And I thought she was," he said. "I'm sorry."

Susan shook her head, standing up. "I thought she just – just disappeared—"

"She did," Walter insisted. "Susan, listen to me. Don't you think I would have told you if I'd known she was alive all this time?"

She sighed, crossing her arms.

"Why don't you read the letter yourself?" Walter said, pulling a folded piece of paper out of the envelope and holding it out to her. She didn't move. "Please, Susan."

Exhaling slowly, she finally reached forward and took the letter from him. "What are those?" she asked, nodding to the other leaflets that had come out of the envelope with the letter and fallen onto the desk.

Walter folded them up again and slid them back into the envelope. "Her final will and testament," he answered solemnly. He didn't have to tell her that the will was for his eyes only. At least for now. "You can read the letter in your room, if you'd like."

She understood his subtle dismissal, and left without saying anything further.

* * *

Susan did retreat to her bedroom, but only for long enough to exchange her stay and skirt for a shirt and trousers again. After she'd tossed the wretched dress onto her bed and pulled her hair back into its braid, she was about to walk out the door when she stopped, glancing towards her dressing table where the letter sat. Debating for a few moments, she eventually sighed, stuck the letter into her pocket, and went downstairs.

Rather than staying on the main floor of the house, Susan descended the servants' stair and entered the kitchen, an old habit of hers from when she'd first learned to walk. The windows were smaller in the kitchen but still allowed plenty of light, and it was warm and cozy from the hearth regardless of the season. The smell of the dried herbs hanging along one wall added spice to the air along with whatever had been cooking that day, and best of all, Susan was always welcome to either help Madeline with the more unpleasant aspects of food preparation (more specifically, fish gutting, which Madeline never had been able to hide her disgust for) or to just sit and relax. Currently, Madeline was kneading a large mound of bread dough with floury hands, her sleeves rolled back to her elbows.

"Just make yourself comfortable, honey," she said without looking up from her work. Susan's shoes had never been quiet.

Already beginning to feel better, Susan perched atop the stool on the other side of Madeline's work counter, watching her strong fingers work the dough and her wrists turn and press. "Aren't you going to ask me what Pa wanted?"

"Not my place," Madeline answered smoothly. "Though I 'spect that that gen'leman wasn't one of the usual young men your papa calls 'round to meet you."

"He wasn't." Susan tore a small piece of raw dough off the mound, chewing on it thoughtfully.

"I hope you're not thinkin' too hard."

"Huh?"

Madeline smiled, pulling fist-sized lumps of dough apart to make rolls. "I see that look in your eye, honey. You're thinkin', and you're thinkin' hard. If y'ask me, that bright brain of yours is gonna run outta fuel one of these days."

Susan swallowed the last of her piece of dough. "Not if you're cooking, it won't."

A chuckle, and then a stern, "One piece is enough," as Susan reached for another lump of dough.

Susan sighed and resigned to just watching Madeline prepare the rolls to bake.

"So what _did_ your papa talk to you about?" Madeline ventured after several long minutes.

"I _knew_ you were curious," Susan pointed a jokingly accusing finger at her.

Madeline assumed a perfectly straight face. "No, ma'am. But I've been raisin' you up since you were just learnin' to lift up your head, and you've always been one to talk." She smiled affectionately, sliding a tray of rolls into the oven.

"My mother's dead," Susan finally said, resting her cheek on her fist.

"Your mother? I thought she'd passed a long time ago."

"Well, that's what Pa told me."

"Honey, you know your papa's a good man and he don't tell nothin' but the truth. Especially to his one and only child." Madeline pushed another tray into the oven. "What else did he say?"

"Nothing, really. But he gave me a letter."

"A letter?"

Susan nodded. "That man who was visiting brought it to him – it's from the constable of some town in South Carolina."

"Well, what did the letter say?"

"I haven't read it yet."

Madeline cocked her head to the side in a quizzical expression. "Why not?"

Susan shrugged.

"Honey, what are you so afraid of?"

* * *

**A/N: Leave a review and let me know what you think :)**


	4. Making Deals

**_Characters in Part Three:_**

_Sue Sylvester = Susan Simpson_

_Will Schuester = Walter Simpson

* * *

_

_Chapter Three_

It wasn't until long after the sun had set that Susan finally forced herself to open the letter. She sat back against the headboard of her bed, tossing the envelope aside and unfolding the paper, squinting a little to read the cramped handwriting in the light of the candles by her bedside. The top of the page was marked with _April 12__th__, 1776_. Nearly a month past.

_Mr. Simpson,_

_I'm sure you must be wondering why a man you've never met or heard of is writing to you, and to say that I knew of your existence before yesterday would be a falsehood. I am the constable of Middleton, South Carolina – it's a small cotton town outside of Dorchester, and it's where your wife, Anne, has been residing for the past fifteen years. I'm writing to you now because it's my unfortunate duty to inform you of her sudden passing two weeks ago on the 31__st__ of March._

_It would be unfair of me to say that I knew Ms. Roth well – she lived on the outskirts of town, and though she was somewhat of a socialite, we did not travel in the same circles. I knew her only on a professional level, as she was one of the residents in the area of my jurisdiction. She owned a cotton plantation consisting of over one hundred acres of fields, and had nearly forty Negroes, including those both in the fields and in the home. No one who knew her during her time here was aware that she had family until after her passing and her final will and testament was found (you'll find that the will is enclosed). The reason for the delay in my writing you is that the local notary was finding it difficult to locate you._

Susan stopped reading for a moment to frown and wonder what exactly had been so difficult about locating her father, considering that he was enough of public figure through his shipyard that people down in _Georgia_ knew of him, but she supposed that in a small cotton town there wasn't much need for boats until the cotton was long off the plantation and on its way to the northern cities.

_As you will discover upon reading her will, what becomes of Ms. Roth's estate and property requires your presence in Middleton, at least for a short while. Since her death, the plantation has been presided over and maintained by Roberta Baxter, a close friend of hers, and will remain in her care until your arrival, whenever that may be. Ms. Baxter and myself understand that you are a businessman of some renown and most likely have pressing responsibilities in New York, and so please do not feel over-pressured to rush southward until you have the time to do so._

_I look forward to meeting you in person, and please accept my condolences._

_Sincerely,_

_Ballard Emerson, Constable._

Just as Susan finished reading, there was a soft knock on the door and her father leaned into the room. "Oh, you're still awake," he said.

"You have good timing, Pa," she replied, placing the page on the bedside table.

"I take it you read the letter." He came over and sat on the edge of the bed. "I'm sorry, Susan."

"For what?"

"I'm just sorry. After your mother disappeared, I was hoping there wouldn't be any more complications where you and she were concerned."

She shrugged. "At least now we know where she went."

"True."

"So…are we going to South Carolina?"

He smiled. "In two weeks. I'm leaving my affairs to the care of Mr. Janis while we're away."

Susan's face broke into a grin. She'd never traveled outside the colony. "How long will we stay?"

"Depends on how long it takes to work through the proceedings laid out in your mother's will. At least a month."

"Are we sailing?"

A twinkle crept into Walter's eye, and Susan's eyes widened.

"Wait…two weeks? From today?"

"Yes."

"That… that's the day the _Constance_ sets off on her maiden voyage!"

"Yes, it is."

Susan gaped at him, and if they'd been in the presence of company, Walter would have told her to pick her jaw up off the floor before any flies could get stuck in her throat. Now, he only laughed as she cried, "We're going to South Carolina on the _Constance_?"

"Yes, we are." He was grinning now, too, a relaxed smile that Susan only saw on the few occasions that the two of them were alone.

"Do I get to help sail it?"

He raised a stern eyebrow. "Susan, you know that I don't approve of your gallivanting around the boats with the men. Suppose one of them were to take advantage of you? They're a rowdy lot, drinkers and gamblers and who knows what else."

Susan rolled her eyes. "_I_ can take care of myself just fine, Pa."

"I also don't want you causing brawls," he said, looking at her pointedly.

"Pa, that was _one time!_" she protested. "And I _won_ the fight!"

"Susan, that man had to be sent to the hospital. You broke his arm. That sort of behavior is not fitting for a young woman of your stature. Of _any_ stature."

"He started it," she insisted. "_Please_, Pa? You know I'll just sneak out anyway."

He sighed, shaking his head. "You are insufferable."

"And you have dirty hair," she retorted quickly.

"I do not."

"So do I get to work?" she pressed.

He shut his eyes for a second. "Why God cursed me with such an unbearably wayward daughter, I'll never know," he said. "Fine. But I want you properly dressed during mealtimes, which you _will_ take in my cabin, and I want you to stay off the masts and away from the crow's nest."

"But Pa, that's where all the fun is—"

"Susan, I am not going to allow you to work if I have to worry about you falling to your death because of misplaced footing. Do we have a deal?"

She sighed. "Fine. Deal."

"Good. Now, these next two weeks will consist mainly of me transferring my business to Mr. Janis's hands. The captain and crew have already been selected, and I'll have Adrian put out notices – we'll be taking passengers."

Susan leaned forward, crossing her arms and resting them on her knees. "So…what _is_ going to happen to her estate?"

"It stays in the family."

"But how would we maintain a plantation in South Carolina when we live in New York?"

He smiled. "I didn't say we would."

"Huh?"

"Your mother didn't leave the plantation to us," he said. "Your mother left the plantation to _you_."

* * *

**A/N: I know it's a short chapter, and I apologize for that. Felt like the right place to cut it :) Leave a review!**


	5. Fore and Aft

**_Characters in Part Four:_**

_Sue Sylvester = Susan Simpson_

_Will Schuester = Walter Simpson_

_Jesse St. James = Jack Janis_

_Azimio = Adrian_

_Sam Evans = Stephen Everard_

_Matt Rutherford = Mathias Rewen

* * *

_

"Miss Simpson, your beauty grows more and more with every sunrise."

Susan rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "It'd be wise to save your tongue-wagging for the whores downtown, Mr. Janis," she said dryly.

"Susan!" her father scolded.

Mr. Janis, sitting in the chair in the study that had been occupied by Mr. Hatten the previous day, only smiled. He was slightly older than Walter, with more bulk and more flair to his fashion, and he'd been Walter's junior partner in business for as long as Susan could remember. Despite his years of presence in her life, however, she felt as close to him as she did to the barnacles on the hull of a boat. "Oh, go easy on the girl, Walter," he said with a chuckle, exposing teeth stained by years of tobacco use. "She's got the spirit you had in your younger days; you can hardly reprimand her for that."

"I assure you I can," Walter replied smoothly before turning his attention to his daughter. "What do you need?"

"I wanted to let you know that I'm going out with Adrian to put up the notices around town."

Walter quirked an eyebrow over his spectacles. "Are you now." It wasn't quite a question.

"Yes."

"Dressed like that."

Susan fingered the edge of her boy's shirt. "…Yes." Her mind was already preparing to ignore her father's orders to wear gender-appropriate clothing.

"Well, go on then."

She blinked. "Wait…that's it?"

"Susan, I'm very busy at the moment," Walter said patiently. "To tell you to dress properly would only waste my time further."

"Yes, Pa," she responded immediately with a fervent nod of the head, already turning to the door.

"Miss Simpson," Mr. Janis called before she left. He tossed her a coin. "Buy yourself something sweet to eat."

She flipped it over and tossed it back. "I'm not seven years old," she threw over her shoulder, leaving the men to their business.

Walter shook his head, mystified by his daughter's brazen behavior.

"Relax, Walter," Mr. Janis said with a yellow-toothed grin. "She's seventeen, she's spirited."

"I think that may be an understatement," Walter replied dryly, squinting at the papers on his desktop.

"Walter, are you sure you want to take her down to South Carolina?" Mr. Janis leaned forward in a rare seriousness. "She may be independent, but she's still only a child. Do you think she's ready?"

"I'm her father, Jack," Walter said evenly. "And I'd appreciate it if you left the fatherly duties up to me where Susan is concerned."

"Oh, come now, I'm not questioning your authority as a parent," Mr. Janis argued. "How long have you and I known each other?"

"Over twenty years. I don't need to be reminded of that," Walter responded, scribbling away on a piece of parchment. "She needs to spend some time out of the city. There's too much going on here, too much to influence her. The South will be good for her. For both of us."

Mr. Janis sighed, lacing his hands together. "I just don't want you rushing off to chase a dead woman."

Walter visibly bristled. "I'm well aware that Anne is dead, Jack. I am traveling to South Carolina first and foremost because I am required to be there as Anne's last living relative. And the plantation's been left in Susan's name. If nothing else, Susan should see what she's inherited and she should learn a little bit about taking care of it. After that, I intend to leave it in the care of others until she's old enough to either sell the land or live there permanently."

Mr. Janis held up his hands in a mildly placating gesture. "Just don't do anything you regret. You know that Susan can hold a grudge worthy of Hercules."

* * *

Susan had never understood why her father had bought Adrian. He was Madeline's younger brother and Walter had purchased the two of them from a plantation in Virginia sixteen years ago after Prudence, the ancient woman who had been house slave before Madeline, had died. While Madeline was proper and wise and sweet all in one, Adrian was meaner and tough. He rarely spoke, and when he did it was with a low gravelly voice that would make most sensible white women squirm in discomfort. He wasn't particularly tall, but he carried himself in an odd way that made him seem subservient and submissive at the same time as being able to take someone much larger than he down in a fight. Susan didn't care much for him, and it was only on occasion that she was alone with him. The only reason Susan had decided to go with him was because she wanted an excuse to leave the stuffy atmosphere in the house, and her father was likely to refuse if she'd not given a solid reason for the desired excursion.

Since the coach was otherwise occupied (and it was off-limits to Adrian), the two of them were forced to walk from place to place. Adrian carried a small stack of papers, the notices that they were supposed to post around the city nearest to the shipyard. Susan adjusted her hat on her head as he nailed up one of the notices outside the nearest market.

"How many passengers do you think we'll get?" she wondered aloud.

Adrian only shrugged curtly, clearly unhappy about having her along.

She sighed boredly, scuffing her shoe on the cobblestones. "Well, I'm off."

He frowned at her. "I got orders, Miss."

"Yes, _you_ do," Susan agreed. "_I_, on the other hand, don't. _Therefore_, I'm off." Without waiting for him to respond, she turned on her heel and began to stride back in the direction of the shipyard. Adrian only huffed through his nose, bull-like, and returned to the task at hand.

It didn't take long for Susan to arrive back at the shipyard – they'd only been ten blocks away – and when she did, she headed straight for the _Constance_ at the end of the pier. There were fewer men working on the deck now as she neared completion, and a few of them bobbed their heads in casual greeting as she nimbly climbed aboard.

"Hello, Miss Simpson," sneered a voice from behind her as she was about to shinny up the riggings on the mizzenmast.

She turned around with a cocky grin to face a stocky man with greasy blond hair. "How's your arm, Everard?"

"Well enough to dole out some fine retribution on your head, missy," he snapped, curling a fist to prove himself truthful.

Susan raised her eyebrows, leaning on the edge of the ship on one elbow. "Is that right, now?" she said lightly. "You'd better watch yourself, or I might just break the other one."

His lip curled. Stephen Everard was one of the least respected workers in the yard – the son of a butcher, he spent most of his breath insulting the men around him and provoking fights, which, to his credit, he usually won. While he was by no means a large man, he knew how to handle himself and he tended to spark quarrels with the more brawny men of the yard in order to show off that he could beat them. Susan, however, had been unimpressed with him from the beginning.

"Y'know, most of the men here think you're nothing to worry about simply because you're one of the fair sex, and they'd never fight you," he spat as Susan repressed a laugh. "But fair sex or no, I'll do more than break your arm—"

"Everard!" barked another voice from above. "Aren't you supposed to be working down below?"

Everard glanced up at the man hanging halfway up the riggings, then sent Susan one final glare before stalking off. Susan chuckled and looked upwards. "Well, he seems more irritable than usual," she said. "Hello, Mathias."

Mathias shrugged. "He's just sore over the fact that he was hospitalized by a woman."

"You think he'll ever live it down?"

"I doubt that," he replied with a smile, his teeth in high contrast with his dark skin. Mathias was a rare breed, a mulatto who had been working in the shipyard since he was a small boy. He was young, maybe in his early twenties, but over time had worked his way up the ranks amongst the workers and was viewed as something like a foreman. He _knew_ boats, and was open to teaching Susan about them while the other men would scorn. In truth, Susan didn't know much about him other than the fact that he was half slave and half Irishman, since the majority of their conversational exchanges had to do with ships and shipbuilding, but he was one out of a handful of people that Susan respected.

"Come on," he called, already climbing back up the riggings. "There's sails that need fixing."

* * *

**A/N: Sorry to any Sam lovers. I hate that boy. I really, really do. And therefore I couldn't help but exaggerate his douchebaggery (yes, that's a word; deal with it). Review!**


	6. Loyalties

**A/N: Sorry for the short delay, people. Real life's been kicking my ass lately.**

_**

* * *

**_

**_Characters in Part Five:_**

_Sue Sylvester = Susan Simpson_

_Will Schuester = Walter Simpson_

_Jesse St. James = Jack Janis_

_Matt Rutherford = Mathias Rewen_

_Sam Evans _=_ Stephen Everard_

_Carl Howell_ = _Charles Hatten_

_Mercedes Jones_ = _Madeline Jenny_

* * *

At the end of a very long day of business discussions, Walter shook Mr. Janis's hand at the door.

"Don't worry," Mr. Janis said with a grin, fixing his hat on his head. "I'll keep a watchful eye over your little nautical kingdom during your absence."

"Oh, it's not the kingdom I'm worried about; it's you," Walter said lightly. "You know how rowdy the men can be. And with the war approaching…they grow even more so by the day."

"Walter, there will be no war against England."

"New York is about to levy money in support of the Continental Army, Jack, and Massachusetts already has. You can't argue that there won't be a war."

"The British lost a staggering number of men at Bunker Hill and they still won the battle," Mr. Janis insisted. "They have great resolve and their military is an extremely functional and well-oiled machine. This so-called 'American nation' doesn't exist, and England will not allow it to be built so long as they have control of the colonies, which they _will_ maintain."

Walter sighed, tired. "Perhaps you're right."

"This may not be the best time to travel, Walter," Mr. Janis said, a trace of concern in his voice. "The British Navy is powerful and they're easily provoked."

"Well, it wasn't the best time for Anne to die, either. When it rains, it pours."

The corner of Mr. Janis's mouth tugged up. "True."

"On the other hand, it might be better to travel now rather than later," Walter mused aloud. "If Susan's energy wasn't being funneled into the journey, for all I know she could disguise herself as a boy and enlist in the army."

"Lord knows she'd try," laughed Mr. Janis. "Well, I wish you the best of luck, and I'll come to see you off when you leave."

Walter smiled. "All right, I'll see you then. And thank you for taking this on."

"Oh, don't thank me, Walter." Mr. Janis flapped a hand, fixing his hat on his head. "You know I've been dying to seize hold of the business for years."

* * *

Susan's calves were aching as she tugged a massive knot tight around the sail and boom, leaning her midriff against the wooden beam so as not to tip backwards and fall to her death. The only thing separating her from the two hundred foot drop below was the rope fastened to the underside of the boom, nailed in place to give footing to the sailors as they tied or untied the sails. The rope swayed slightly under Susan's weight, and she gripped the boom a little tighter as she gave her knot one last pull.

"How's this?" she called to Mathias, who was curled around the boom to her left, tying a similar knot around his section of the sail.

He glanced over. "Much better," he said. "Try to do it faster next time." He turned his attention back to his own knot, deftly finishing it off with the ease of practice, then slapped his hand against the wooden beam, pleased with their work.

Susan craned her neck and peered down to the ship deck far below, watching the men scurry about to complete their various tasks. She could see Stephen Everard sanding down the handles of the ship's wheel at the stern. "I wouldn't put it past that leech to leave splinters for the wheelsman," she said, nodding her chin in Everard's direction.

"You can really hold a grudge, can't you?" Mathias said, a smile playing across his face. He had a unique accent, a strange blend of a colored man's lilt and an Irish drawl.

Susan shrugged. "He started it."

"Of course he did. Absolutely nothing to do with the fact that you told 'Blondie to stuff it'?" Mathias smirked.

"He was making wisecracks about me!" she defended.

"Of course he was."

Susan rolled her eyes. "Oh, stuff it yourself, Mathias."

"That's Mr. Rewen to you," Mathias cracked a grin. "I suppose you'll have to find someone else to tag along with soon."

Susan frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I volunteered to join the _Constance_'s crew," he said, slapping the boom for emphasis.

"Really?"

"Aye."

"Well, that's good." Susan quirked an eyebrow. "Because I'm sailing with her too."

Mathias cocked his head to the side. "How's that?"

"My father and I are sailing to South Carolina," she answered. "On the _Constance._"

Mathias' eyebrows climbed towards his hairline in amusement. "Is that right? Well, it'll be interesting to see you in a dress for a change."

"What!"

"If your father's traveling with you, I'm assuming he's not going to let you run round in _that_ style of dress," he said, gesturing towards her boys' clothes.

Susan huffed. "My father doesn't control me."

"Obviously."

"Is that a remark?"

"Aye, m'lady."

"Oh, stuff it."

* * *

A coach pulled up to the entrance of the Simpsons' business office and residence, and the coachman jumped down to open the door for Mr. Charles Hatten, who stepped down from the coach and strode towards the establishment without so much as a 'thank you' to the driver.

"Afternoon, Mr. Hatten," said Madeline as she held the door for him.

He awarded her with a curt and condescending nod before stating impatiently, "I'm expected."

"Yes, sir," was Madeline's reply as she leaned into her master's study to announce the visitor.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Simpson," Mr. Hatten greeted him, breezing by Madeline without a second glance, shutting the door behind him.

"Afternoon," Walter replied, standing as Mr. Hatten entered the room. "I should thank you for bringing the letter and will to me; not many would go to such lengths."

Mr. Hatten shrugged, taking a seat. "As I said, I was in the area on business matters. It was no trouble."

Walter didn't sit back down. "Tell me, Mr. Hatten; where do your loyalties lie?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"There's a war coming; which side do you support?"

"Why, I'm a Loyalist," Mr. Hatten responded, resting his hands on the head of his cane. "May I ask why it matters?"

"It matters because you'll be on the boat to South Carolina two weeks from now, and therefore you'll be around my daughter. She's an impressionable girl and frankly, I worry about her."

Mr. Hatten frowned in confusion. "And?"

"I expect you to refrain from filling her head with matters of politics," said Walter evenly. "She doesn't need to be concerned with that sort of thing, and she's liable to get it into her head that we should turn the boat around and either fight the British Navy or join it."

"She sounds like quite the firework," laughed Mr. Hatten. "All right, I won't speak to her of such things. I'll restrict myself to the weather or something."

"Thank you."

"Out of curiosity, Mr. Simpson…where do _your_ loyalties lie?"

Walter laced his hands behind his back. "I'm a businessman. I don't have the luxury of taking sides in a war."


	7. Bridled

_**Characters in Part Six:**_

_Sue Sylvester = Susan Simpson_

_Will Schuester = Walter Simpson_

_Mercedes Jones = Madeline Jenny_

_Matt Rutherford = Mathias Rewen_

_Noah Puckerman = Nathaniel Packard_

_Azimio = Adrian_

* * *

_**Two weeks later**_

Susan could already feel the sweat beginning to collect at the base of her back as she stepped down from the carriage into the sun beating down on the crowded docks.

"These stupid shoes are giving me blisters," she snapped at her father, who climbed out of the carriage after her. Adrian, who'd been riding on the footman's stand, began unloading the baggage.

"Come on, Susan," he father warned. "Don't act out. It's the first day of our trip, try to be positive. For my sake as much as yours."

"It's hard to be positive when one is restrained by mountains of petticoats," she hissed, planting her hands on her hips as Madeline clambered out of the coach, adjusting her shawl around her shoulders.

"Susan," he father started sternly, pulling his tricorn hat tighter onto his crown. "If you cannot behave according to the manners befitting a young woman, I swear to God that I will have you wearing that dress for the duration of the journey."

She huffed through her nose as he turned to thank the carriage driver. "You try wearing a corset and see how you like it," she muttered, resigning to tugging grumpily at the lace trimming on her sleeve. She couldn't tell whether the dress she was wearing was actually this awful or if it was just the early summer heat that was making it feel like it was. Oh, hell, it was probably both.

Wishing she could take off her (silly-looking) hat, Susan shielded her eyes from the sun and looked up at the _Constance_, completely finished and sitting proudly in the water as she waited eagerly to set sail. The hull had been painted a deep green and, still youthfully clear of barnacles, almost looked glossy as the light reflecting off the surface of the water rippled across the strong wood planks. Lines of men hauled barrels and crates across the bridge ramps from the dock to the ship, loading up the _Constance_ with supplies.

"Susan!" Madeline's voice called her attention. "Come on, honey, we gotta get on the boat."

Susan turned around, sighing and following along beside Madeline, a few steps behind her father as they worked their way through the dock workmen rushing to and fro. "How long before we set sail?" Susan asked.

"Should only be an hour or so," her father answered, scanning the crowd.

"Who are you looking for?"

"Mr. Hatten; he and I were supposed to touch base before we boarded. Oh, there he is – Madeline, take Susan aboard and have her situated in the captain's quarter gallery. I'll be there shortly."

Madeline nodded and climbed onto the closest bridge ramp, walking across a little unsteadily as the ramp swayed slightly beneath her feet. Susan followed, jumping down onto the deck with all the grace of an elephant, nearly tripping over her skirts.

"I still don't understand why I have to dress like this during boarding," she grumbled as she and Madeleine made their way towards the stern, dodging the men who were preparing the ship to sail.

"Because your papa said so," Madeline said simply, fanning herself with a hand as an even warmer breeze blew over them.

"Well, as I live and breathe," said a voice from behind them. Susan turned and immediately flushed as she spied Mathias eyeing her with pure, undisguised amusement. "That dress suits you; you should wear it more often," he said, hefting the massive coil of rope he was carrying over his shoulder.

"Mathias, if you say another word about how I look right now, I swear to God that I will beat you into oblivion with my fan," she threatened.

"Oh, and I'm sure you will," he said, visibly suppressing a laugh. "I should warn you, though – Everard's on the crew as well, so you may have to watch over your shoulder a bit."

She rolled her eyes. "I can handle myself just fine, thank you."

"Not in that dress, you can't."

"Mathias—" she started, curling a fist.

He held up a hand. "All right, all right, don't hurt me. Wouldn't want to end up like Everard, now would I? I'll see you later."

Once Mathias was gone, Madeline raised an eyebrow at Susan. "He someone your papa should know 'bout?"

Susan frowned. "What?"

Madeline chuckled, shaking her head. "Honey, that boy likes you; it's plain as day."

"Oh, please."

"Don't you roll your eyes at me," Madeline scolded. "I've seen a lotta things in my time, and that boy likes you."

"No, he doesn't, and even if he did, I wouldn't be interested."

Madeline shrugged. "Fine. You don't got to listen to me."

Just as they were about to enter the quarter gallery at the stern of the ship, Walter caught up with them. "All right, Susan, are you ready to meet the captain?"

Susan only shrugged sullenly in response, knowing that meeting the captain was just one of a long list of obligations that she had to sit through as the daughter of the ship's owner. As Madeleine headed off to find her own quarters, Walter opened the door to the quarter gallery for her, revealing the cramped but stately room behind it. Susan had been in here before, helping Mathias put together the glass panes at the rear of the ship (but what her father didn't know wouldn't hurt him).

At the desk in front of the windows stood a dark-haired man in a deep crimson knee-length coat, bending over the map spread across the tabletop. He looked up at the sound of the door closing, and Susan blinked in surprise when she saw that diagonally across his left eye was a deep scar knitted into his flesh, and the iris of that eye was a milky, deadened pale blue. His other eye was a warm hazel, and he gave a thin smile with tobacco-stained teeth. "Mr. Simpson, I was wondering when you'd be here."

"Mr. Packard, this is my daughter, Susan," Walter said, placing a hand on Susan's shoulder. "Susan, this is Captain Nathaniel Packard." She squinted at the captain suspiciously.

"Honor to have you aboard, Miss," he said, and Susan could tell that he had the same disinterest as she did when it came to matters of propriety. "We'll be setting sail in under an hour."

"Pa, can I go out onto the deck?" she bluntly requested.

He sighed, deciding to ignore her purposeful use of 'can' instead of 'may' (she knew that it irked him). "Yes, you may," he said. She nodded and swiftly turned towards the door.

"Your girl's a bit of a firecracker, eh?" Capt. Packard said once she'd left.

"Don't I know it," Walter replied, shaking his head. "If she weren't in a corset, she'd already be up in the crow's nest."

Capt. Packard sat in his desk chair, picking up his pipe and striking a match to light it. "Women are wild creatures, every one of them," he said, blowing smoke through his nostrils. "They should be kept on a tight leash from the time they can walk, or else they'll be impossible to bridle when they come of age."


	8. Impertinence

_**Characters in Part Seven:**_

_Sue Sylvester = Susan Simpson_

_Will Schuester = Walter Simpson_

_Matt Rutherford = Mathias Rewen_

_Noah Puckerman = Nathaniel Packard_

_Carl Howell = Charles Hatten_

* * *

The moment Susan was free of the quarter gallery, she made a beeline for the bow of the ship, climbing the staircase to the upper deck and leaning against the railing, looking out towards the sea as the wind tugged at her clothes. She'd always felt better when breathing the salt air of the ocean, despite the fact that she'd never left New York before, not even for so much as a fishing trip. Her father had always thought it more important for her to focus on her schooling rather than travel, and 'schooling' consisted mainly of an education in the arts. And while she could appreciate a piece of piano music (provided she could sit still long enough to listen to it), Susan failed to see what use piano-playing would be beyond entertaining guests, which she was planning on doing as rarely as possible in the future.

"You're looking in the wrong direction."

She turned around. "What?"

Mathias grinned, leaning on the railing next to her. "You're looking east – we're going south."

She rolled her eyes. "I know that, imbecile. But south of us, the only thing I see is a church."

"True."

"What are you grinning at?"

"I like your hat."

"I don't. It stinks." Susan looked back out towards the sea. "Have you ever been outside New York?"

"Aye."

"Really? Where?"

"South Carolina."

Susan frowned. "And you're going back?"

"Aye."

"Huh."

Susan was about to press him for details when a shout rung out from the lower deck, "_All hands on deck! Set to cast off! All hands on deck!_" and Mathias straightened up. "I guess that'd be me," he said, saluting her with two fingers before hopping back down the stairs.

Susan watched from the upper deck as the sailors scurried about the boat. Mathias nimbly scaled the riggings to let down the sails with some of the other men.

"_All hands on deck!_" Captain Packard shouted again, taking a stand behind the wheelsman.

The ramps were taken back and ropes were unfastened, allowing the _Constance_ to drift a few feet away from the dock. High above, there was a ruffling sound as the sails on all three masts began to unfurl, their white expanses drifting downwards and then snapping taut as they caught the wind.

"_Cast off that line!_" she heard the captain yell. "_Hoist the anchor!_"

Susan leaned against the rail, craning her neck to look down towards the stern of the ship, where she could see the anchor slowly rising out of the water, clanking against the hull. If she shielded her eyes against the sun, she could make out Mathias' shape on the uppermost boom, climbing back towards the deck.

"Ready to set sail, Miss Simpson?"

She looked over her shoulder, barely managing to conceal a grimace. "Can I help you?"

Mr. Hatten tipped his hat. "Just saying hello. Lovely weather, isn't it?"

"Yes, it _is_ lovely," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "But a gentleman like you surely has matters he needs to attend to."

"Not at the moment," he said with a smile. "No, currently, my most important task is enjoying the fresh air."

"Uh-huh."

"Do you mind if I join you?"

If Susan had been born with her father's instinctive manners, she would've said no. Instead, she had no hesitation in saying, "Yes, I do mind."

His smile faded in surprise. "Oh. I see. Well, you don't beat around the bush. Very well, I'll leave you to it."

Susan rolled her eyes and leaned back against the railing as he left, watching as the gap between the ship and the dock grew steadily wider and wider until, finally, the dock was behind them and the boat was cutting through the water, heading out of the harbor under full sail. The wind whipped at her clothes and pulled strands of her hair loose, and the salt spray from the sea stung the inside of her nose.

"What did you say to Mr. Hatten?" demanded her father as he climbed the steps onto the upper deck.

"_Why_ do people keep coming up from behind me?" Susan asked, exasperated. "Honestly, I think this might be becoming a trend!"

Walter's brows shot up. "People are sneaking up on you?"

"I never said 'sneaking'."

"Fair enough. What did you say to Mr. Hatten?" he repeated.

"Nothing."

"Susan…" Walter warned.

"What? He asked if he could impinge upon my personal space, I said no. Simple as that."

Walter quirked an eyebrow. "'Impinge upon your personal space'?" he echoed. "Susan, your exaggerations are beginning to get out of hand."

"I wasn't exaggerating!"

"Your vocabulary always stretches when you do," was Walter's simple observation. "What exactly did you say?"

Susan groaned. "Why does it matter?"

"It matters," Walter said patiently, resting his hands in his coat pockets, "because how _you_ behave is a reflection on _me_."

"Oh. Well, it's nice to know you care."

Her father pinched the bridge of his nose. "Susan, you know very well that's not what I meant."

"I don't see how you could have meant anything else."

"Come on, now. Why can't you at least _try_ to behave properly?"

"Because it's _boring_, Pa," Susan drawled. "It's just very, very _boring_."

Walter sighed, frustrated. "Look, Susan… is it so wrong for me to wish that my daughter could make a good impression on people?"

Susan pursed her lips. "I just don't like him, Pa."

"I'm sorry?"

"Mr. Hatten," she clarified. "I don't like him."

"And _that's_ your reason for speaking impertinently to him?" Walter asked.

Susan shrugged. "He just rubs me the wrong way, is all."

Walter shook his head. "Susan, _you_ rub people the wrong way. And I'm starting to wonder if you do it for the sole purpose of antagonizing me."

"No, but that part is fun."

Walter sighed and pinched his nose again. "Fine," he snapped. "I'm going to go get set up in our quarters. Feel free to climb to the crow's nest and wrestle with the men." Securing his hat onto his head, he turned and went back down to the lower deck.

Susan huffed and refrained from retorting that she didn't _wrestle_. After all, so what if she was a little brazen? She couldn't see herself being prim and proper like the other girls of her age and wealth. Frustrated, she pulled out the ribbon holding her hat to her head and yanked it off as the wind grabbed at her knotted hair. "To hell with prim and proper," she said.

And then, without hesitation, she flung the hat out into the air. It caught a downdraft and spiraled into the waves, disappearing into the wake of the ship as they left the New York harbor behind.


End file.
